CSA Survivor Story -1.

My childhood, as I remember it, has been a procession of uncles. The
old geezer, both feet in the grave who wanked all over me when I was
barely five. The distant relative who felt me up when I was eight or
nine. Not to mention the friends of the father who would make me sit
on their laps while I squirmed because I could tell there was
something not quite right. The immediate relative who would come over
home when I was a teen, knowing that my parents would be away at work,
but couldn’t work up the courage to do what he came for. Or maybe it
was because I was older, more knowing. And more insistent that he
leave immediately. And so many others. Did I tell? Yes, I did. The
first time I was five I told my parents, I was warned to not go to the
person’s house again. The next, I was warned not to find myself alone
in the company of the molester. The third, I was kept locked in the
house throughout my summer vacations or when my parents were not at
home, like a prisoner. They still roamed around in society, their
heads held high. Nothing was said to them. I was made to feel guilty,
ashamed of being a girl. Ashamed of my body. Ashamed of being too
‘developed’ so much so that I went on a starvation diet when I was
around 16 to lose all my curves, thinking it would make men not look
at me. I lost half my body weight, with it my periods, and set the
cycle for a lifetime of polycystic ovarian disease and infertility
issues, which I still suffer from. I went to the other extreme and
bloated out, hoping that overweight would be unattractive. I wore
clothes that covered me fully, full sleeves, long skirts and trousers.
I became a nerd, a girl with her head perennially in the books,
studying to avoid socializing. I refused to leave the house for days.
Till date I have self-esteem and body image issues which I have learnt
to accept and overlook.

It took me long to fall in love with someone, and trust him enough to
marry him. Longer to accept my sexuality and accept the fact that this
could give pleasure, the guilt and the shame always overshadowed the
act.

When I think back, my anger is not towards the men who abused me, but
towards my parents, who refused to confront those men, who chose to
play it safe. They were the ones who truly scarred me for me. All they
had to do, was to tell me it was not my fault, I wasn’t to blame. If
they would have just told me that, I would have been a more confident
person, instead of spending my teens and my twenties steeped in guilt
for being a ‘bad’ girl.

– Just Another Victim.

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